


See It Through

by plingo_kat



Category: Tron (1982), Tron (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-26
Updated: 2011-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:21:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kevin wakes feeling like an elephant trampled on his head and a raccoon died in his mouth. It's okay though, because what results from a drunken night of stupidity is all of the good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	See It Through

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/tronkinkmeme/4397.html?thread=3133741#t3133741) at the tron kink meme. Doesn't follow it exactly, but hopefully it's good enough!

It’s the celebration of their third quarter earnings, way higher than expected, and Kevin gets mildly drunk at the office party even before he invites Lora and Alan to join him for private drinks at a bar he knows. Lora begs off, says she’s got enough alcohol to process already, thank you, but Alan agrees. His faces is slightly flushed, eyes half-lidded behind his glasses as he smiles.

“All right,” says Kevin, wrapping an arm around Alan’s shoulders. They sway a little more than they ought to when they walk. “Let’s get totally smashed, how about it?”

They do.

 

 

Kevin wakes feeling like an elephant trampled on his head and a raccoon died in his mouth. He gets up slowly, and only once he downs a cup of water does he notice Alan passed out on his couch. The other man’s glasses are off and his hair is sleep-mussed, but Kevin is feeling too awful to find him cute like he would any other time. Instead he just refills the cup of water and leaves it on the counter for the other man when he wakes up. Then he stumbles off to the bathroom for a long, hot shower.

When he comes out, towel wrapped tight around his waist (he wasn’t in any condition to think of things like clothes before) he feels marginally better, at least halfway human. Alan is still conked out on the couch, and in deference to what will most definitely be a splitting hangover Kevin stays quiet.

He’s making toast -- simple food he can handle -- when he hears rustling an a low groan.

Shit. He should have moved a trash can over. He grabs one and goes to kneel by Alan’s side, but it turns out that it isn’t needed; Alan sits up and then flinches, hand going to the center of his chest. The top of his shirt is gaping open, buttons undone, and the white hint and clear tape of a bandage is visible. Alan feels it too, going by the furrowing of his brow, and he blinks twice.

“What?” he says.

“We got drunk last night,” Kevin says softly. “Totally smashed. You want some water?”

At Alan’s nod he gets back up, grabs the glass he left out and brings it back over. After he’s drank his fill Keven mentions the bandage.

“You know you’ve got a bandage under your shirt, right?”

“ _What?_ ”

“...Yeah. I think that may have been my fault. Sorry, man.”

“Flynn, I’m going to kill you.”

 

 

Keven watches as Alan traces the air over the four blue squares on his chest. “A ‘T’?” he says.

“Yeah.” Kevin winces. “Definitely my fault.”

“It’s not so bad,” Alan says, leaning closer to the bathroom mirror. "I can cover it up with a shirt pretty easily. At least it wasn't something stupid, like a skull on the arm."

"I don't think you'd have done it if it were a skull on your arm," Kevin says.

"I wouldn't have done this if I were sober either," Alan says.

He has a point.

 

 

The thing is, it doesn't go away. Kevin and Alan work late all the time, and after hours Alan takes off his tie, rolls up his sleeves, undoes the top buttons of his shirt. Blue ink peeps out from the gap of fabric below Alan's collarbones, light and distracting, and Kevin finds himself staring, waiting for one of them to glow. Alan eventually notices.

"What?" he says, looking down at himself. "If that takeout we ate dripped and you didn't tell me, Flynn..."

"It's nothing," Kevin says quickly. "So going back to this bug -- I think if we--"

"No," Alan says firmly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms after inspecting himself for grease stains. "You've been staring at me for the past five minutes. I want to know what's going on."

He looks at Kevin, silent, until Kevin throws up his hands. "Fine!" he says. "Fine. It's that damn tattoo, all right? I feel bad for making you get it. It's distracting." He tells part of the truth, at least. He really isn't guilty about it.

Alan sighs. "Is that all? I told you before, it's fine. I've even grown to like it, a little." He brushes his fingers absently over the upper right square. "It's unique."

Kevin can't help but imagine the way Alan's fingers feel, how those blue squares would look standing out starkly around skin flushed with heat. He shakes his head. "All right," he says, dropping the subject. If Alan likes it, that's fine. And Kevin has no right to feel like that mark gives him any sort of claim over the other man, because it doesn't. It doesn't.

 

 

Two months later when they fall into bed together, Alan gasps when Kevin nips at a collarbone, groans when he moves lower to lick gently at the T on his chest.

“You like that?” Kevin murmurs, fingers tracing along, over, between the blue squares inked into his skin. He laughs when Alan growls, impatient, and leans over to suck a mark low on the other man’s neck.

“Flynn,” Alan pants, arching, hair mussed and pupils blown wide. “You’re a fucking cocktease, you know that?”

“Language,” Kevin says, but grinds their hips together nonetheless. "And use my name, Alan. Unless you want to be called Tron. I could do that."

"Shut up," Alan says, threading a hand through Kevin's hair and pulling him up for a kiss. He takes that as a no. Fine. Calling Alan Tron would be weird anyway, makes him feel like he's using a friend. With an identical twin. God, now he's thinking of Tron and Alan together, and it is _ridiculously hot_. He kisses Alan back with enthusiasm, all teeth and lips and tongue, and snakes a hand down to grasp both their erections. Alan breaks the kiss with a gasp, and Kevin moans his agreement, hand and hips working together in tandem. Alan hooks a leg behind Kevin's back, rolls his body upward, and then suddenly Kevin is on his back, sheets cool beneath his skin.

"What--" he starts, but is cut off by the way Alan smirks down at him, warm and arrogant and satisfied. God, he didn't even know Alan could look like that.

He wants Alan to look like that _all the time_.

"Shh," Alan says, voice liquid and warm. "Just let me."

Kevin can't do anything but nod, unable to resist the gentle command in those words, and spreads his legs obligingly when Alan urges him to, fingers pressing on the insides of his thighs. Then suddenly there's a bottle of lube (where did that come from?) and jesus, Alan definitely knows what he's doing, and if Kevin weren't choking on air in his pleasure, he'd be sure to ask where Alan learned to do that. _God._

He makes an embarrassing sound, more than one, knows that but can't stop. Alan's face is flushed, sweat dampening his hair and creating a light sheen across his chest, making the skin of his back slippery. Kevin's grips his shoulder tightly, grits his teeth and grinds out a "go, Alan, come _on_."

Alan looks down at him, wide eyed and unmoving for a long moment, then nods and lines himself up. It feels amazing, tight burn and glorious friction, and soon Kevin is shoving himself upwards and back, feet crossed over one another above the small of Alan's taibone, urging him on. Alan throws his head back, tendons standing out on at the base of his throat, and Kevin's gaze is drawn downwards again to his tattoo, the emblem of the hero of the Grid. He frees his hand from Alan's shoulder, traces a shaking hand down along Alan's chest to press lightly against the four little squares, and Alan makes a hitching little sound.

"You--" Gasp, moan, swallow. "You like that? Like me touching this--what I convinced you to get--my mark--"

Alan makes a tight, hurt noise, thrusting hard enough to shift both of them upwards on the bed.

"Come on," Kevin urges, fingers splayed over the tattoo. He curls himself upwards, tightens his legs around Alan's waist and bends his head down. "Now."

He bites down hard on blue ink. Alan shoves into him, shouts when he comes. Kevin feels it, warmth and wetness, and goes over the edge as well. They both fall back, spent.

"...Wow," says Kevin when he can speak again. "That was something."

Alan, face buried in a pillow, makes a muffled noise of agreement, which turns into something like a whimper when Kevin traces light fingers over the skin of his chest, over the double-mark of ink and teeth.

"We have got to do this again."

Alan moves enough to try and smother him with his pillow. Kevin fends him off, laughing, and throws an arm over the other man to sleep.

Life is good.


End file.
